They followed Phierson back through the kitchen door, past the dining room, and up the stairs. There were more patches of blood on the stairs, right up to the landing and beyond.
'No blood in any of the bedrooms,' said Phierson. 'Ask me, she heard the guy. He thought the place was empty, spotted her up here, grabbed a knife out of the kitchen, came up here, and-'
Phierson had stopped in front of a door at the end of the inlaid wood floor. He knocked.
'Come in,' a man said. And in they went 'What took you so long?' a man Lieberman's age dressed in a business suit said, checking his watch.
The Usual Suspects
At the moment Hanrahan and Lieberman were entering the study of Harvey Rozier, Dr. Jacob Berry was standing inside the outer door of his office trying to decide whether or not to open the door to the man with the booming, angry voice.
'Hey, I know you in there. What the fuck, man? I got a 'mergency here.'
Jacob went back to his office and got the new gun out of the drawer. It felt cool and lighter than he had imagined. He put the gun in his pocket, which sagged suspiciously under its weight, and moved back into the reception room, where he opened the outer door with a trembling hand.
Two men burst in, both black, one in his forties or fifties, big, me other young and slender with a frightened look on his face. They were wearing jeans and matching orange shirts.
Jacob came very near to shooting them.
And then he saw that the young man was bleeding, his left hand a deep, moist red.
'What you all doin' in here? Playin' with yourself? Got a man here bleedin' to death,' the big man said angrily.
'This way,' Jacob said, leading them into the office/ examining room.
'My son, Jamie here, caught it in the truck door. We was unloading fish at the Chink restaurant downstairs.'
Jamie was beyond discussing anything. He was biting his lower lip so hard that Jacob had to tell him to open his mouth and take deep breaths. Jamie, little more than a scared boy, nodded and tried. His breaths were not deep but his mouth was open.
Jacob sat him on the examining table and told the father to be sure his son didn't fall off. Then Jacob washed his hands in the sink and examined the damage.
Jamie was holding his left wrist with his right. He held it away from his body. His shirt was already badly stained. Jamie made small whimpering sounds as Jacob carefully cleaned the hand, probing for broken bones and looking for lacerations.
'Not too bad,' Jacob said. 'From the swelling and tenderness I'd say the middle finger is broken. Looks like a simple fracture, but he'll have to have X rays. I'll clean the wounds, give him something for the pain and something to hold his hand steady till you get him to the emergency room. You know where Weiss Hospital is? It's just-'
'I know,' said the older man. 'I don't have much cash on me. You take a check?'
'Can you manage ten dollars cash or a check for twenty-five?' 'Yeah. Cash.'
'I don't think the lacerations need suturing, but mat's something for the ER,' said Jacob. 'Don't worry. He's going to be fine. My advice is that you and Jamie wear thick gloves when you work.'
'Thanks, Doc,' the older man said, clearly relieved and touching his son on the cheek. 'Now, you min' if I give you some advice?'
'No,' said Jacob, working on the wounded hand.
'Get yourself a holster for that thing in your pocket,' me big man said. 'The way you carryin', some bad ass is gonna figure you got something to protect.'
Harvey Rozier's study was as big as Lieberman's living room. No, it was bigger, and certainly better furnished. One row of books, colorful Oriental rug on the inlaid wood floor, antique French desk near the floor-length windows, a green wing-backed chair and two-seat couch that perfectly matched the dominant colors of the rug and the muted green of the wall. Three movie posters were framed on the wall, from King Kong, Casablanca, and Gone With the Wind. Lieberman would have bet his house that all three were originals.
And then there were the two men. Kenneth Franklin was standing, impatient. He was tall, tan, and athletic- club trim, and in better shape than Lieberman, who was younger. Harvey Rozier had been sitting at the end of the couch. He got up slowly and held out his hand. He wasn't conspicuously built like a bodybuilder, but it was clear that he was in good condition. His dark, not-too-long hair was combed neatly back and he looked as if he had recently shaved. He wore jeans, a perfectly ironed tan Burberry shirt, and sneakers.
'Thank you for coming, Detectives,' Rozier said sincerely, shaking their hands and meeting their eyes. 'Please make yourselves comfortable. There's a small refrigerator in the master bedroom if you'd like something light to drink.'
Harvey Rozier's eyes were red and moist. He rubbed his hands together as if they were cold and sat back down in the corner of the couch.
'Gentlemen,' Franklin said. 'Considering what Mr. Rozier has been through, we would appreciate it if you could keep this brief. We, and my wife, have already given a full account to the detectives who came last night, or this morning, if we are going to be precise. Neither Mr. Rozier nor I have had any rest-'
'It's all right, Ken,' Rozier said, his right hand covering his eyes. 'I want to talk to these men. I want whoever did that to Dana to be caught soon, tried quickly, and put away forever.'
Ken Franklin shrugged in resignation and sat next to Harvey Rozier.
Hanrahan leaned back against the bookcase, where he could watch the men and admire the posters. Lieberman took the wing-backed chair.
'I understand you asked for me by name. Why?' asked Lieberman.
Harvey Rozier looked up.
'Someone told me you were the best,' he said.
'I'll be content with 'one of the best,' ' said Lieberman. 'Who?'
'Is this really-' Franklin said, but Rozier held up his hand to stop him.
'Ida Katzman,' Rozier said. 'I handle her accounts and coordinate her investments. She's mentioned you more than once.'
Mystery explained, in a way. Ida Katzman was eighty-six years old, walked with a cane, and had a seat in the front room of Temple Mir Shavot, where Bess Lieberman was president. Ida Katzman was the principal donor to the temple and the primary source of funding for the new temple on Dempster, now being remodeled from a Great National Bank. Ida was the widow of Mort, who had died more than twenty years ago. He had come to Chicago with then-borrowed dollars and gone to his grave owning ten very successful jewelry stores in ten major cities. It was all Ida's now. There was nothing wrong with Ida Katzman's business judgment. In the two decades since her husband's death, Ida, apparently with the advice of Harvey Rozier, had doubled the number of stores and, it was rumored by none other than Rabbi Wass himself, the young Rabbi Wass, that she had more than doubled the company's net worth.
'I'll thank Mrs. Katzman when I see her at services Friday,' Lieberman said.
Rozier examined Lieberman's face for a tint of sarcasm, but there was none there. Hanrahan had his notebook out.
'Would you ask your friend to please not lean against the bookcase?' Franklin said.
'Detective Hanrahan,' Lieberman said, cocking his head toward his partner. 'Would you please not lean against the bookcase?'
Hanrahan took a half step forward.
'Mr. Rozier,' Lieberman continued. 'I think I would like a glass of water.'
Rozier started to rise, but Franklin put out a hand to stop him.
'I'll get it,' he said. 'And you?'
'Nothing for me,' said Hanrahan.
'If it's not too much trouble, Ken,' Rozier said, 'I'd like a mineral water too.'
